The last leaves fall in a funereal confetti. Day after day of fog. When John Corcoran arrives for our ceilidh band practice, his headlights reveal a drizzling net of moisture – the air itself seems to be weeping. November can be difficult. No wonder our forebears imagined the year dying and the fabric between the living and the dead fraying. Trees bare, ground sodden – even familiar, loved places can feel devoid of comfort. Yet there are consolations. Migrant birds such as the redwing have recently arrived. Woodcock, too, bring their long beaks and sloe-berry eyes from as far away as Finland, Russia and the Baltic states. Even some robins overwinter here having arrived with the woodcock. If you suffer late autumn blues, try to see our wet fields and dripping woodland through t